Poem

We all know minds are lonely things

That pace in cages made of  bone.

They try to reach between the bars

They long to find a grasping hand.

 

Who is it listens when minds sing?

We hear their songs, we sit alone.

As far apart as distant stars,

We need someone to understand.

 

The longing to be understood,

The reaching out into the night,

The need to tell what you have seen,

Are not desires that you can still.

 

It will not come to any good.

You would not hold this hand by light.

You say you know just what I mean,

But no-one does and no-one will.

 

 

 

 

Sorry about that. It wouldn’t stop going around until I wrote it down. Feel free to use that in your Christmas Cards.

V.

 

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